


Your Day will Come

by eymelee



Category: Vinland Saga (Anime), Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Gen, Mafia Boss!Askeladd, Very OOC, implied Askeladd (Vinland Saga)/Bjorn (Vinland Saga)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eymelee/pseuds/eymelee
Summary: "I ask, you answer, or I blow your head in and trust me, no one will miss you,” Askeladd states, exaggeratedly casual in handing out death threats, like candy on Halloween.People know that Askeladd takes both of these activities very seriously. His adversaries, especially.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Your Day will Come

**Author's Note:**

> it's me taking a "break" from writing

He loathes others overstepping. 

Askeladd is, and has been since the last time he’s checked, very precise about his territory. Several of his men have been posted alongside the border stretching from the proprietary Azure’s Club down to the Fifth, keeping other mobsters carefully cautioned of the repercussions of doing their business in his district. 

Blame the man, but his band of mavericks - also known as the ‘Vikings’ - preferred their boss to take a stroll in a relatively undangerous, unoccupied and unhurried neighborhood. Askeladd had been grateful for it, through words and little gifts, which subsequently made his men unanimously decide to take out any trash that had been reeking closer and closer to their leader.

And Askeladd appreciates it - for he loathes others overstepping in his home.

Sweyn of the Forkbeards’ is a dealer in trade and stocks during the customary day while Sweyn of the Danes deals in grants and labor during the nótt. A respectable man, unostentatious at first glance, known for his deeds by both wise men and town people, whispered as a man better not to cross.

The Vikings’ leader wouldn’t dare do that - instead, he’s planning to gut him. 

“How’s the cover-up coming along?” Askeladd directs his questions to his second, his hands loosely held behind his back.

Björn stands slightly behind him yet his voice is crisp and audible as usual - well, only when he addresses his boss during assignments. The rest of the time, his aide enjoys employing another kind of language, mainly when they’re alone. A more intimate kind, definitely not suited for business. 

“All is in place. We know the bastard has been in hiding after the last stunt he pulled on Tore and got the whole gig called off. Terrible loss, to be honest,” the built man’s foot incessantly taps the gravel they are on. “We’re ready to go inside and secure the place so you can take your time with whatever you have in mind, boss. Then we get out and wipe our traces.”

“Very well, tell the men to move ahead,” Askeladd says, raising his hand and pointing it forward. 

A few muscular suits emerge from sleek black Audis parked strategically alongside the road, obscure enough so their target would be caught off guard welcoming them. The mobsters’ boss loiters around until a secondary signal denotes that all is clear. That’s when he checks his own wear, ensuring it’s immaculate - for his Mam taught him to always pay a visit to those you respect in your best, most neat clothes - and strolls the couple hundred meters to his destination.

His footfall sounds on the pavement, then on the grass and last on the wood of an old-fashioned house’s porch. Askeladd absently regards the place and can’t imagine hiding there. Even his most inferior emergency caches are at least two floors tall. 

The door is already cracked open due to one of his most trusted aides picking the feeble lock. The man - Atli, breaks into a mischievous grin and with a flourish, motions his companions inside. 

It’s a sour welcome. No one greets them at the door, takes their coats or offers them any sweet champagne. Askeladd should have Björn bring some cocktails next time they stealthily break into a foe’s house. 

A stench lingers in the air, a mix between cigar smoke and something else Askeladd can’t recognize, as an old song duly resounds from the room ahead. The few men who made their way into the house, following their boss, slip by in the narrow hallway and check the first space - which appears to be a living room.

Askeladd prizes himself in being quite a clean person, in both residence and appearance. That is why, when his eyes lay upon the room they enter, both the mess in the room and the man that greet them irk him greatly. 

“Good evening, Sweyn, Mr. King! I hope you’re appreciating this night,” the Vikings’ leader arrogantly calls out, stance wide. 

A barrel of a man startles from the couch, attempting to stand and assumingly defend himself against the intruders. He is pathetically unsuccessful, visibly inebriated, fumbling with a pocket knife. 

“A- Askeladd, you bastard, how did you find this place?” his target stutters. 

Askeladd steps over discarded clothing and empty bottles, closing the distance in between them, as Sweyn retreats further into the living room, the former showing no worry over the tiny piercing knife pointed at him. 

His men - especially his second in command - do though.

Björn is as tense as a bowstring, rushing their opponent and crashing into him, bringing both of them to the floor. His aide is quick in disarming Sweyn, immobilizing his hands with a zip tie. 

That’s the kind of fear play tactic that Askeladd likes to begin his games with.

He crouches in front of his overturned, powerless prey and stares him down, in silence, one of his men having had the courtesy to turn off the stereo for this particular bit. 

“Shall we do this simply, Sweyn? I ask, you answer, or I blow your head in and trust me, no one will miss you,” Askeladd states, exaggeratedly casual in handing out death threats, like candy on Halloween.

People know that Askeladd takes both of these activities very seriously. His adversaries, especially.

“Fuck you, ash boy, you ain’t getting shit from me,” Sweyn spits out, his expression pinched.

Askeladd waves his hand in dismissal, ready to put the other in his place once and for all; his grave, that’s the place they have prepared for crooks. But first, his men have been aching for some enjoyment.

And that’s what they are ordered to do, in the following hour or so, all the while Askeladd leans back in one of the cleanest chairs, legs crossed, and enjoys the show. By the time their fun is over, Sweyn is barely breathing anymore.

“You did not want the simple way,” the boss sneers, his prized golden six-shooter coming out of the holster, “goodbye.” The revolver discharges with a deafening noise followed by blood and matter splattering on the already stained carpet. 

He doesn’t spare the dead man any more attention.

His men begin moving quickly. Drawers and cabinets are searched for valuables, documents are put away, canisters of gasoline are brought inside. Askeladd does not partake in loots, preferring to idly observe, as he knows that if his men find anything worth his attention, they will bring it forth. 

It’s when one of his buff guys steps towards the open kitchenette that he hears something deserving. 

A cry - likely a whimper, coming from the cupboard under the sink. 

All the men standing in the vicinity freeze. Björn takes it upon himself to investigate after a confirmatory nod from Askeladd. 

His aide’s own pistol is raised as he approaches the source of the sound with small, yet heavy steps. Some more clatter is heard from inside the cupboard, similar to someone digging around in an overstuffed drawer for a missing item. Or a weapon. 

“Ya come out now with your hands up and I won’t shoot you straight through the door!” Björn yells, having stopped a few paces away from the sink. From inside, there’s a loud yelp followed by a unique bang. The sound of someone hitting a stainless steel basin with their head.

The cupboard doors open grudgingly slow and Askeladd can discern a mop of blonde hair at first. What he sees next surprises him. He's not sure whether it's the sort of surprise as when you receive a nice gift, or the surprise coming with the news of the passing of a loved one. He detests both kinds. With slender hands raised in front of him, a young boy emerges and stands, a too-big ripped T-shirt engulfing him, several purple spots littering his arms. A holed sock hugs his right foot, while his left is bare.

Everyone is rooted on the spot, but Askeladd regains his composure quickly.

“I gotta say, if I knew you’d get so dressed up to welcome me, I would’ve brought in some wine,” Askeladd calls out as Björn steps aside so his leader would have direct sight of their tiny host, having deemed the kid as harmless.

The teenager keeps his head down but Askeladd follows his eyesight, covered by the overgrown bangs, as it jumps from him to Björn to each of his men - planning an escape probably - until it lands on the lifeless trash sprawled on the carpet.

The boy’s eyes widen and the Vikings’ boss sighs inwardly. Not one of these revenge-fueled brats. God, he hates killing kids.

“Come closer so we can have a little talk,” the Vikings’ leader invites the other. 

With a deep gulp, the kid obediently steps forward but halts to leave a polite distance. Or a safe distance, whichever. Askeladd’s men encircle them, ready to intervene at any suspicious move. 

“You got a name, boy?” he initiates, actually putting up a smile to appear warmer, right next to a dead, cold body. 

“Thorfinn, sir,” the teenager promptly answers, eyes darting to Sweyn’s body, scanning it thoroughly now. Askeladd allows him, and even though he has no clue of what their relationship is, was, the sooner it registers with the boy, the better. He has to give it to him - not many people just stand there and regard a corpse, especially one mutilated as The King’s, without gagging or feeling something. 

But the boy - Thorfinn does not seem affected in the slightest. Askeladd catches his next silent words, which pretty much explain a great deal.

“Wish I could’ve done some to ‘im too,” Thorfinn mutters, face painted with distaste.

Askeladd blinks once, twice. Then he throws his head back and barks out a laugh, all while slapping his knee. Few of his men chuckle, not because it’s amusing to them, but because it’s protocol. 

Thorfinn jumps at the suddenness of the action though, similar to a cornered rabbit. His brows furrow and his mouth opens to presumably form a question, but it closes just as promptly. 

“What’s up Thorfinn, ask away,” Askeladd entertains him. The teenager shuffles on his feet for a bit before he finds his courage and inquires.

“What will you do now?” It’s vague yet specific enough, cunning. A smart question for a smart lad, who appears to have comprehended the situation instantly. 

Askeladd leans back in his chair. “Well, after looting the place, we’re going to spread some of that gasoline around, open up some gas pipes and throw a lit match in. A simple pull of curtains.”

“As for me…?” Thorfinn lets it hang, a glint playing in his light brown eyes.

“Sorry kid, we usually don’t leave witnesses when we can help it,” Askeladd shrugs, knowing it’s definitely not true, but wanting to provoke a reaction. Even Björn, who knows him, grunts his disapproval at his affirmation.

But Thorfinn doesn’t pick up on Björn’s objection, he doesn’t know Askeladd, he doesn’t know anything about their work and how they do it. He’s at their hand, whatever they decide, and it shows. So, his previously tense shoulders now sag, face going slack and paling slightly. There’s inner turmoil shaking him to his core, the Vikings’ boss can clearly recognize it. Only after a moment, the older man gets a solemn nod as an answer.

“There’s a suitcase of cash in the dresser and a couple of arms and drugs by the fridge,” Thorfinn points back to the kitchen. “If it’s papers you’re looking for, they should be in his desk’s drawer, in the bedroom, but you need a key. That’s most of his treasure.” He pauses for a moment, picking his next words. “If… it’s possible to unlock the basement, I’d like to go there, sir.”

“What’s in the basement, kid?”

“My treasure, sir.”

Sweyn’s set of keys is still tied to his jeans’ belt loop and with a wave of the hand, one of his men unhooks it and passes it over to his boss. Askeladd checks the multiple keys one by one, pausing to check the heavy ones and removing them from the ring as he sees fit.

“Which one is the basement’s key, Thorfinn?” he absently questions.

“The big, rusty one, sir,” the teenager answers promptly, back straightening as Askeladd unfastens the key and passes it to the boy, the latter’s eyes lighting up. “Thank you,” he hastily adds before walking towards the hallway.

Most of his men continue to sack the place, on Askeladd’s orders, as Björn and himself curiously follow the teenager. Thorfinn unlocks the door, drags the heavy door open and goes down a flight of stairs, into the darkness below.

“Who’s there?” a weak voice echoes in the empty room which is shushed away by Thorfinn. Askeladd finds the light switch and flips it on.

Thick mildew is built in the cracks of the cement walls and floor alike. There are several cardboard boxes pushed into the wall facing the stairs, a pile of dirtied rags on top. The more he steps down into the basement, the more the musty air reaches Askeladd’s nostrils, forcing him to sneeze. Several wide pipes are fixed to the bottom of the walls but besides that, the room is quite empty.

Another teen is slumped in a corner, furthest from the staircase, long blonde hair covering his unclothed body. If Thorfinn has been an unexpected overlook in his plans, the other’s presence is plain awful. The second kid’s torso is mostly covered in his dried blood, having previously come out from different wounds and cuts, and he appears to be as thick as Björn’s muscled forearm.

On top of that, he’s chained, heavy-duty shackles enclosing his thin wrists. Askeladd wonders why he hasn’t squeezed his hands through, but the metal cuff around his neck explains it.

“It’s over, Sweyn is dead,” Thorfinn says, palm caressing the other teen’s face. “But so are we, soon. At least it’s gonna be over, huh.” 

The long-haired kid owlishly blinks, seemingly understanding but having nothing else to say. He appears to melt into Thorfinn’s touch, breathing in deeply and exhaling shakily. Askeladd and probably anyone with half a brain cell can tell that he doesn’t have much time left, without immediate medical care that is.

“That’s fine, at least we can go together, no?” the boy mumbles, but subsequently breaks into a cough. Thorfinn takes to rubbing his back with the bottom of his palm. 

Askeladd holds back, considering, but feels Björn’s tense form right behind him. They remain like that for a while, the elephant in the room not addressed. Well - the kid elephants. A plan is about to shape in his mind, but he’s interrupted.

“We’re ready, sir. You can lock the door or whatever, we’re not going to leave,” Thorfinn is now facing them from the floor, his left hand interlaced with the other boy’s.

Askeladd runs his fingers through his hair, trying to decide on a course of action. He hates surprises, goddamnit. The two pairs of eyes watch him like hunted vultures, either ready to leap and fight or accept their fate and become food. The boss reluctantly gambles on that first instinct, taking a step forward, hands in the pockets of his dress pants.

“Hypothetically, if I were to offer another option besides dying, would you take it?” he asks, pressing his lips together. He’s studied by the two briefly, feeling strangely uncomfortable. His breathing gets held up as he waits for an answer. 

“If this option involves us being alive and not separated, then yes,” the second teen says, stressing out his words, “hypothetically.” Even though he is in no shape to move or even talk, the kid gives off the same aura Askeladd recognized in Thorfinn earlier: sharp, quick-witted, even more than the first boy.

The gang’s boss exhales heavily through his nose, hearing Björn mirroring him. He peeks over at Thorfinn who is searching his friend’s eyes for understanding. They don’t verbally communicate and Askeladd finds it fascinating, how the two boys seem to communicate just by staring at each other. 

“But, Canute…,” are the only words that come out of Thorfinn, yet they are silenced with an intense stare from the other.

Askeladd doesn’t wait for any more doubt to sprout. 

“This is how it’s going to be. We’re going to carry you out to the base, where you’re both going to get cleaned, fed and medically examined. It’s going to be, let’s say, an invested time in which you’re going to reach optimal capacity. Then, you’ll get trained on whatever I want or need. You will do as I say, for as long as I say it. Understood?”

“Even kill?” Thorfinn’s eyes sparkle gold in the dim basement light and Askeladd can’t tell if it’s in apprehension or thrill. 

“Even kill,” he answers the boy together with a deep nod.

With a final meaningful look to Canute, Thorfinn stands on his shaky legs, shoulders pushing back, gaze alert. Askeladd is already fond of the kid’s determined stance and deep down, knows that he - they - will pull through. He has just lit them a path.

“Can we get out of here now, boss?” Thorfinn says, a grin spreading on his scrawny face.

**Author's Note:**

> Blessed be the VS discord server. Please, please read [ Cello's ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellorocket) [ Steady Hands ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495189/chapters/53751757) it's been the hugest inspiration yet! 
> 
> Thanks as usual to [ poato ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExasperantMadman/) for helping with this <3
> 
> Take care y'all


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